


speed me up and then i fall

by lowi



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 10:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2306588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowi/pseuds/lowi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Niall still says nothing. First time he’s quiet and Zayn talks a whole bunch, and everything sucks balls.'</p><p>Also features Niall as a forest nymph, an old crackhead, and a companion mostly known for his pale Irish arse. And Zayn as a demigod.</p>
            </blockquote>





	speed me up and then i fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [im_on_craic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/im_on_craic/gifts).



> So, what I got was the loveliest prompt ever. Somehow I really messed it up. I have no idea how it became this angsty: I am terribly sorry that I ruined the prompt like this. I hope you'll like it at least a little bit. xx
> 
> Also, thanks to N for betaing; you're the best, sweetie.

It’s with a perhaps slightly overdramatic sigh that Niall shuts the TV off and pushes himself up from the sofa. There’s just that much daytime TV you can stand. He adjusts himself, hanks up his sweatpants a bit higher on his bare hips and goes to fetch his mobile from the kitchen.

Zayn’s coffee mug is still on the table, together with an empty bowl and the newspaper. Niall should probably clean it up, at some point. It’s just that, there’s a whole bunch of hours in the day, and time is creeping forward so slowly Niall needs to save up on things to do, or the day will be all empty, almost coming to a full stop. He wouldn’t mind getting another job, sure, but bartending only two nights a week keeps the job being great fun, and it’s not as though he’s in need of more money at the moment: he and Zayn haven’t talked about it, but they’ve been shagging for perhaps two months and Niall’s staying over permanently, and it’s not as though Niall needs to pay any share of the rent.

If Niall was a bit more morbid, he’d perhaps worry that he paid for his living by sucking cock, but since it’s not been specified as such he’s not gonna view himself as a prostitute. He grabs a bag of crisps from one of the drawers and places his bum on the kitchen counter. Now that he thinks about it, he probably didn’t pay for these crisps. Nor for anything else in the vicinity. Zayn’s providing him with a bed, food, and hot water. And Niall’s returning the favour by putting his tongue in Zayn’s arse.

He thumbs open his phone and finds Harry in the contact list.

_would u consider me and zayn some kind of sugardaddy thing_

He sends it away, munches on a few crisps, and then sends another two texts to Harry.

_IS HE ONLY SLEEPNI WITH ME FOR MY BODY_

_or am I only fucking him for the monmey !!!!!!!!!_

While waiting for a response he returns to the living room, where he finds one of his tank tops on the floor. He puts it on, and then he muses over how much of _him_ has taken over the rather large (giant, honestly, compared to where Niall’s stayed before) flat: how it’s all melted together, his and Zayn’s belongings. It sends a few chills down his arms. When he picks up a couple of his socks from the rug his phone sounds.

_What are you talking about?? What’s going on is something wrong???_

Another message follows right after.

_Did you guys fight is nt z on work_

And then another.

_Also srsly niall you’ve been outta reach for weeks and THIS IS HOW YOU GET BACK TO ME iam so disappointoned_

Niall laughs a little and flops down in one of the beige plush armchairs, one leg hiking over the armrest. He pushes the phone symbol while swallowing down the last crisps in his mouth.

‘Ni, what’s going on?’ comes Harry’s worried voice after just the first signal.

‘Sorry! Didn’t mean to freak you out.’ Niall laughs a little again, and he’s quite certain he can hear Harry let out a breath.

‘Well, you kind of did. What were you on about?’ Harry’s voice’s already slowed down, sounding more normal: more like the voice Niall knows better than anything else. Harry’s been there, always. They’ve managed to get through everything together, and when Niall says ‘everything’ he’s not really exaggerating. Mugged in Naples down to their last penny, so they had to hitchhike back to England, sleeping in train stations and stealing food from markets; Harry being fired and fired and fired, but Niall picking up the calls and being the referenced master chef/executor/head of department whose number Harry had left the employer and always winning them over; and, most importantly, the two of them being thrown out when only sixteen – too many discipline hearings and reports of drug possession and fights, but from there creating a life for themselves, sticking together through it all.

Niall might have blanked out of the conversation a little bit, because Harry now says sternly – or as stern Harry is able to be, which isn’t stern at all, more like whining; Niall can bet Harry is pouting heavily as well  – into his ear: ‘Niall, talk to me.’

‘Remind me again why the two of us aren’t fucking, Haz,’ Niall says and scratches at his back.

Harry’s laughter hits Niall’s ear like drops of falling water, and then he stops himself and instead sounds terribly insulted. ‘We were, don’t you remember?’ It’s not quite a question, and Harry either way keeps talking, voice full of laughing disappointment and Niall imagines Harry, hair long and floppy falling into his eyes which are bleary and large. ‘Didn’t my tremendously nice penis make a long-lasting impression? But then we figured out that as much of juvenile delinquents as we might be, both of us had a thing for men in uniform.’

Niall snorts. ‘Yeah, true. But I know you still have a thing for my lovely blond locks, Styles, so don’t try anything.’

‘I don’t,’ Harry protests, rather weakly, but then he adds, in a firmer voice. ‘Plus, you’re almost brunette now, so.’

Niall pulls a hand through his hair; Harry is probably right. He makes a mental note to buy some hair dye next time he goes to the grocery store, and then he hums a little.

‘What was the thing about you and Zayn, then?’ Harry asks.

Yeah, right. There was still that. ‘If you had to describe me and Zayn, how would you do it?’ Niall asks, trying to sound bright and upbeat. Harry probably can hear right through it; Harry had told him – while drunk off his head and crying to Niall about Zayn’s colleague in a disgusting pub toilet a month or so ago – that he had figured out, years and years ago, that Niall’s means of defence, when something actually affected him, was that he would laugh just as usual, but there would be this little tiny note of mania to it, just tinted by hysteria. And Harry had seen right through it, apparently ‘since we were little kids, Ni, not larger than a bottle of milk,’ so Niall should beware. Since Harry had been the one with his head down a gross toilet, with tears all over his cheeks, Niall hadn’t taken the threat that seriously – to be honest he hadn’t grasped why Harry all of a sudden was telling him to beware, but he hadn’t mentioned it, just told Harry to please finish puking ‘because even though Tomlinson fancies the shit outta you, princess, he might not fancy you with vom in your hair.’

‘Um, how do you mean? Like, a couple, I suppose? Or, like, what. One of them pretty much a demigod, and his companion mostly known for his pale Irish arse.’

‘Heyyyyy,’ Niall says, deliberately stealing Harry’s trademark comment where he sounds like he’s been offended to death. ‘My arse might be pale and Irish, but you shouldn’t be talking about it in that tone, young man!’

‘Okay, my apologies to your bum. It’s great and all. I’ll buy it cake next time I see it. No, but seriously, Niall, what’s this about you and Z?’

Niall stands up from the armchair and walks over to the glass door out to the balcony, where he puts his forehead against the cold pane. ‘Ah, well. I don’t know really. Came to think this morning, a bit. I mean, I’m just here. Doing nothing, but eating his food, sleeping in his bed.’

‘You’re doing a bit more than sleeping in that bed, though.’ Harry’s voice sounds fond and warm.

‘That’s what I mean.’ Niall feels smaller than ever, as though a gust of air could blow him away. ‘I – This can’t be considered a relationship, not when it’s this uneven. I don’t do anything – and, sure, he doesn’t seem to mind but I don’t want to be his Pretty Woman-case.’

‘Niall – ‘ Harry begins, but Niall doesn’t let him interfere.

‘Like, what if I get to see his mum and sisters? What do I say? “Yeah, me name’s Niall; I don’t have a job but Zayn here feeds me and in return I pay him in sexual favours.”’

‘Hey, come on.’ Harry’s voice sounds small, though, and Niall feels as though he’s fleeting around in the room. Not in the nice way, because there is a nice way, when he’s high, and the room is warm, and he’s lying in Zayn’s lap and everything’s slow and a little sticky. Now it’s as though he’s up close to the ceiling, panicking, frantically twitching and flinching, wanting to get out. Not at all as though the room is a nest, a burrow he wants to stay in forever, which it would be, in that other case.

‘He’s never said it, Haz.’ Niall’s voice probably sounds small too. ‘Never said I’m his boyfriend or that he loves me or anything.’ Niall feels a little bit silly, because he sure didn’t wake up feeling like this, but he can’t tell how it happened to alter, when his mood changed from Cheery Motherfucker Looking For Breakfast to Sad Uncertain Boy Perhaps Being Used For Sex.

Harry doesn’t respond for a long time, but then he says, ‘Well, ring him, then. Lou’s told me you pester Zayn at work all the time, so you could just, like, ring him and, then, er, ask him?’

‘Ask him what?’ Niall says flatly. ‘If he considers me a prostitute, and in that case why I haven’t received any payment just yet?’

Harry snorts. ‘Something like that, yeah. Not to be a dick or anything, but I’m pretty sure you’re worrying about nothing, love.’

Niall nods, and then he remembers Harry can’t see him, so he says, ‘Yeah,’ as confidently as he can. ‘You free tonight? You me and Li, drinks? Like old times?’

‘Yeah, sure. You’ll need to fill us in on how Zayn reassures you he loves your skinny Irish legs. I want all the details of him blowing you in the shower.’

Niall can’t help but laugh. He thinks that Harry is the same Harry he’s always been, but he’s also another Harry, just from going out with Tomlinson. He’s happier, and he’s just slightly ruder, and those two are probably related, and either way, Niall decides, it’s good, because Harry’s not been happy like this in so long.

He doesn’t know why he’s being so sentimental today, but there’s almost a lump in his throat so he just keeps quiet while Harry says, ‘I’ll text Li, yeah. Haven’t seen Payno in forever; he’s worse than you.’

‘Yeah, right. Maybe he’s too fucking a policeman somewhere.’

‘Yeah,’ Harry agrees, sounding fonder than ever. ‘Liam Payne and That One Time The Police Forced Me Down But It Ended With A Snog.’

Niall almost chokes on laughter. It’s bubbly, now, the feeling in his stomach, and somehow the room looks lots less grey and cold. When he’s calmed down, he tells Harry thanks, and to text him the details of the evening, and then they end the conversation.

He fiddles with a phone a little after having fallen back into the sofa. He goes through his Instagram feed, likes a photo Harry’s mate Ed’s posted last night, of Harry in the restaurant they’re both working, holding up two broccolis like tits in front of his apron. It makes him smile when he sees that @louist91 has commented ‘is that very hygienic’ and then, beneath it, @harrystyles’ answer ‘BOOBOLI @louist91’.

The rest of his feed is mostly football or golf-related, and he doesn’t even look twice at Neymar’s latest post. He feels an urge to continue stalling, going on twitter, Facebook, but suddenly the text message icon appears, and the preview of it says ‘Harry: Call him now!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’

Niall makes a face at his phone and then puts his hand down the front of his sweatpants, adjusts himself, and then he calls up the police station.

‘West End Central Police Station, how can I help you?’ is the response, and Niall recognizes the voice immediately; the slow drawl at the end, the way it hardly sounds like a question, how it almost feels as though this person isn’t at all offering help – but still, some sort of intense sincerity buzzing beneath it. When you listen closely. Or maybe, rather, when you know how to listen for it.

‘Hi, Officer Malik,’ Niall says. Usually – like yesterday – he’d whine about something being terribly wrong, and that he’d need a couple of strong sexy police arms to save him. Yesterday, he told Zayn that a crime had been committed in the elevator; Zayn had, his tone just hinting of bemusement, asked him to elaborate, and Niall had said there had been a murder, making his voice tremble with chock. When Zayn had asked him – still sticking to protocol and sounding awfully (sexy) professional – to elaborate further, please, Niall had quickly launched himself into a story of how an old lady with her dog had killed his boner! And if Zayn hurried home he might be able to revive the poor thing! Then he had cackled loudly until Zayn had finally snorted and joined in the laughter.

Today he doesn’t say that, though. Zayn must sense something’s off, because his tone is much softer – not at all professional – when he says, ‘Ni? What’s the matter?’

Niall swallows. ‘Nothing, really. I just – I’m being silly, ‘s all.’

‘What – hang on a sec.’ Zayn’s breathing disappears, and there’s a sound of fabric swiping against the receiver, then there’s a moment of absolute silence until Zayn’s voice appears again. ‘Went into the loo,’ Zayn explains. ‘Babe, what’s wrong?’

Niall taps with his finger against his leg. Now that he’s talking to Zayn it all feels stupid, if he’s being honest. He looks out through the balcony door, at the light grey clouds which fill up the entire sky, and thinks of what it would be like if the world was dead. He’d want to know, then. Or if. ‘I was just thinking. Like, it’s not that our sex isn’t great –‘

Zayn interrupts him, his voice now darker and sharper. ‘What do you mean?’ he says, and then he continues. ‘Are you breaking – Don’t do this when I’m at work.’

For two seconds or so the room spins around Niall. Thoughts fly around in his brain; he sees Zayn fucking him in this very sofa; is Zayn telling him –; Liam just getting out of prison and the party they threw him; doing coke for the first time in a bathroom with Harry on Harry’s fifteenth birthday; did Zayn just say –; being kicked in the ribs over and over again; Zayn’s fingers slowly playing with Niall’s hair.

‘Zayn, what, wait, what are you saying?’ Niall says, and he’s probably sounding a bit breathless, as though he’s been punched in his stomach.

The silence on the other side makes it easy to imagine what Zayn looks like right now: jaw set hard as stone, eyes closed, and his fists clenching. ‘Are you breaking up with me?’ he says, slowly, articulating each syllable clearly, as though the words are building a wall around him by the time he’s pronouncing them.

Niall wants to laugh, and he wants to cry. This very normal grey Friday morning ended up in an alley somewhere really off. ‘No, no. I’m sorry.’ He can’t stop it; laughs spills out his mouth and he’s squeezing his eyes shut.

Zayn is quiet for a long time, while Niall keeps laughing. Then he says, into the silence that sits not so heavy on Niall’s shoulders anymore as it did, just minutes ago, ‘Fuck. You scared me – Shit, Niall.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Niall says again. ‘Honestly. I’m sorry I made you think I wanted a breakup. I just wanted to ask what it was we’re doing. Like, you’ve answered it, now.’

It’s as though Niall can hear Zayn’s smile through the phone. ‘I answered what? Plus, you really, honest-to-God, scared me. You have to make it up to me.’

‘I’ll make it up to you, promise.’ Niall tugs at the hem of his sweatpants. ‘You answered, like, what the two of us are. Like, when you said that about breaking up. ‘Cause I was, you know, thinking about that.’

Now Zayn laughs, a soft rumble. Something in Niall’s belly also rumbles. ‘What did you think we were doing, babes?’

‘I don’t know. Worried we were sucking each other’s dicks without any emotional connection about it.’ Niall is light; he’s floating by the ceiling again, but this time he doesn’t want to get down.

And Zayn’s laughter – this time more intense, more _real_ – is what’s keeping him up there, and he really, really doesn’t want to get down.

* * *

 

They’re walking along the Thames, and the sky is grey, looking as though it’s swallowing the entire city, or at least contaminating it. (Instead of the other way around, where the city is polluting the sky, as it usually is. The cut-off line between the buildings and the sky is blurry, as though the sky is seeping down into London, instead of the city pouring out in the atmosphere, almost disappearing. If Niall could voice this properly he’d say it to Zayn, but instead he just walks a bit closer and lets the back of his hand bump into Zayn’s arm.)

It’s quite early, at least for it being a Saturday morning, but Zayn had insisted he wanted some fresh air, plus, he wanted to go to Tate and its new exhibition before too many people got there, because – even though he didn’t say it straight out to Niall – he knows Niall doesn’t like crowds. It’s sweet of him, and Niall’s hand brushes against Zayn’s jacket-clad arm once more.

Niall smiles a little to himself when Zayn fishes out his packet of Yellow Camels and lights one up, cheeks hollowing as he’s inhaling. It’s not exactly fresh air they’re getting; a contour-less cloud has been entailing them for the entire walk, but somehow, Niall thinks, the air wouldn’t be any less fresh even if they weren’t smoking, because the cold stings in their cheeks and fingers, and it’s so damp that nothing sticks.

Niall’s smile feels strained, though, stretching the skin around his mouth, and he considers dropping the cigarette in his hand and putting his hands deep down in the pockets on his hoodie. It’s not only the cold; it’s too whitely bright as well, so he pulls the hood up over his hair, hoping that some of the irritating light will be blocked out. It was a long night, and he’s probably only slept for four hours, but when Zayn opened the balcony door, for his morning smoke, Niall had awoken. Zayn had apologised, told Niall to go back to sleep, but as he had stood there, in nothing but boxers, hair soft and ruffled, lips slightly pouting, Niall had forced all thoughts of running to the bathroom and puking his guts up away, and went for a lovely morning cuddle instead. It sure could cure hangovers, he had thought, when he had had Zayn’s fingers pressed against the bare skin at his hip, just skin on skin like that.

So he hadn’t exactly regretted leaving bed, since Zayn then had brewed them tea and, also, Niall hadn’t seen him at all after their phone call last afternoon – well, he probably had, when he had stumbled home in the wee hours of the night, but he couldn’t remember that whatsoever. That he had found all his clothes under his head, bundled up like some kind of makeshift pillow, also contributed to the probability of him pretty much passing out upon arriving.

It had, or at least the parts Niall remembered, been a great night out. It had felt like they were seventeen again, him, Harry and Liam. Like the world was just lying at their feet, having succumbed even before they as much as blinked at it. Seventeen had been a good age.

Yesterday, however, in their early-twenties-glory, contributed to this age also being a good one. They’d been to this underground club that wasn’t entirely legal, one where Liam knew the owner (which to be fair wasn’t odd at all; Liam knew a lot of people in not entirely legal businesses). Liam had met them there, already at a table with his hair newly cut, this short, short buzzcut that Harry kept petting the entire night.

The table had quickly been loaded with empty pint glasses and Niall had – now that he thinks about it, probably too loudly and boisterously – retold the story of his mini-freakout, which had sent both Liam and Harry into stitches, proper fits, even. Niall had chucked toothpicks at them and told them they were awful friends, and he had grinned so much he had thought his cheeks would ache today.

A little later, Liam had almost ended up in a fight – it was a row about something silly, nothing at all really, and Niall had laughed loudly into Liam’s armpit or somewhere as he tried to hold onto Liam’s arm so he wouldn’t punch the bloke, who then had told Niall to get his Irish skinny arse out of there. Harry had looked at Niall for a few moments, just a couple of intense second where everything was vibrating, too tensely strung, and it had felt like something was going to blow up. Probably Liam. However, Harry had still been winded around Liam’s back like a backpack, or a koala in a hairband, and then one of the bartenders had stepped in, telling the other group they would have to leave.

As soon as they were out the door – that they actually left Niall wasn’t sure he was going to thank the bartender’s vigorous flailing for, or perhaps Liam taking the tiniest of steps backwards, actually letting it go – the bartender had slumped down in a chair by their table, and taken a swig out of Harry’s half full beer glass. He had told them that the worst part was he couldn’t threaten with the police, and then Harry had locked eyes with Niall and wiggled his eyebrows and shortly after Liam had joined in their way-over-the-top roaring: Harry was even slamming his hand at the table, his stupid silver rings clattering against the wooden pane.

Niall smiles to himself and drops the cigarette stub next to him. He hadn’t known how much he missed his boys.

‘Oi, no littering, Mister,’ Zayn says to the right of him and, then, quickly, grabs his hand. His hair is flat beneath his beanie and almost reaches his eyes.

‘Yeah? What you gonna do about, Officer? Arrest me?’ Niall says, rubbing his fingertips against the skin on the back of Zayn’s hand.

‘Nah,’ Zayn says, breathing out smoke. His cigarette is dangling in the corner of his mouth. Niall still finds it interesting how slowly Zayn smokes. As for himself, he can finish three cigarettes at the time Zayn’s just halfway done with his first. It’s probably got something to do with their personalities, Niall thinks, like a shitty metaphor for how Niall is eager and stressed and wants to feel something intense, all the time, wants to ensure himself he lives, while Zayn knows how to enjoy things. Certain he’s alive. ‘Could fine you,’ Zayn says, interrupting Niall’s train of thought. ’50 quids, ‘s what you gotta pay.’

Niall snorts. Zayn gives his hand a little squeeze. ‘Or I’ll just blow you in the toilets at Tate, huh? How’s that sound?’

Zayn smiles, mouth diagonally stretching around the cigarette. ‘Yeah, you still have to make it up to me, as well. From yesterday. So, doesn’t that add up to, lemme see,’ he trails off and looks out at the Thames, feigned concentration all over his face. ‘Two blowjobs, am I right?’

Niall bumps his shoulder into Zayn’s. ‘Greedy. But yeah. ‘S not, like, a bother.’

Zayn smiles at him, eyes all scrunched up. It makes something twist in Niall’s belly, how happy Zayn looks. He’s not sure if it’s because of what he said, or something else. It really isn’t a bother, though, having to get his lips around Zayn’s cock. He contemplates saying so, giving Zayn’s dick some praise, but holds it in and just lets Zayn look at him like that. Tries to look back at Zayn the same way, letting him know that, well, it’s mutual. That Zayn makes Niall just as happy. ‘Hey, about yesterday,’ Zayn says, still holding Niall’s hand tightly. ‘You alright? We never got a chance to talk, since you ringed me.’

‘Yeah, all good,’ Niall says. ‘Not sure why I, like, freaked out. Just, as I said, we never really spoke about it, and, I don’t know, I don’t do much.’

‘You do plenty,’ Zayn protests, rubbing his thumb across Niall’s knuckles. ‘But, yeah, guess we could do more speaking. About things.’

‘About things, yeah,’ Niall echoes. ‘You sure you’re not minding me staying over all the time, then? Without, like, paying?’

‘Yeah, ‘course. I make more than enough money, and, you know, I managed before you turned up.’ Zayn’s eyes are gentle, even though his tone is slightly joking. It’s as though he’s trying very hard to make his words come out right, and Niall appreciates it: the world feels calm and he’s not at all on edge or jumpy or as though he has to fill every space with laughter or a filthy joke. It’s different.

‘I do raise the expenses in the crisp-department, though,’ Niall says, and grabs tighter around Zayn’s hand. Soon they’re gonna hold hands so hard a finger falls off. ‘No, okay. Thanks. I mean, I got by living on Haz’s sofa, before. It just, like, wasn’t ideal.’

‘Babe, no one should be sleeping on that sofa. It’s vile.’

‘You should inform Officer Tommo of that. Isn’t that like a police-honour-code-duty or whatever? Saw him and Haz getting it on like rabbits on that very sofa.’

Zayn laughs, head thrown a little backwards, and maybe it’s because the rest of the world looks so dull and grey this morning, or it’s because Niall is still feeling his hangover, but Zayn is practically _shimmering_. Niall can’t believe it. With his free hand he pulls up his hoodie a bit more. ‘Was this before or after you’d moved in at mine?’

Niall swallows before responding, feeling a bit like everything’s been muted. ‘After, thank the lord.’

They walk in silence for a while. They’re almost there now, but part of Niall doesn’t want to go inside. Wants to keep walking here, next to the river, with Zayn, forever. Forever, though. That’s a scary thought. He didn’t even know he had such feelings inside him, that he was able to come up with stuff like that, in regards to anything about life. He sniffs a little, nose a bit sore.

‘You’ve got any tissues with you?’ he asks. He would wipe his nose with his sleeve, but Zayn’s in a button-down and Niall has the same t-tank top on he wore to the pub yesterday under his hoodie, so he kind of feels like a slag already.

Zayn drops his hand and digs around in his pockets a little, and pulls out a half-empty Kleenex-packet from his coat. ‘Here you go,’ he says.

‘Thanks,’ Niall says, after blowing his nose loudly. He wants to grab Zayn’s hand again, but Zayn’s got both hands deep in his pockets and looks a little bit out of it, his jaw firmly set and eyes not as widely open anymore. ‘What?’ Niall also puts his hands down his pockets. There’s more of a gap between them now. He regrets all his thoughts about forever immediately; it feels like he’s jinxed it, just by thinking them.

‘Just. I don’t know.’ Zayn pulls a hand – his right; the one not one Niall’s side – across his face. ‘Ni. Did you do coke yesterday?’

Niall laughs, but something in his belly has unsettled and now feels like it’s going to crawl right out of him. He’s quite sure it’s not because of the hangover, even though the symptoms are similar. ‘As if I’d tell that to an officer!’ He tries to sound joking, and Zayn grins a little, but not directly at him.

‘Yeah, ‘course. It’s just –‘

Niall interrupts Zayn. ‘Hey. I might have. I might have not, okay?’ He’s waggling his eyebrows, but Zayn doesn’t smile at him. His jaw is still razor sharp. Niall doesn’t want to see his eyes, and refuses looking into them.

Something beneath Zayn’s eye twitches. ‘Niall, I – Cocaine is a hard drug. Even possession, just being, like, associated with it could lead to prison. I know I’m not the most law-abiding police what with occasionally smoking pot and stuff, but. Cocaine.’

Niall stops in his steps, turns to his left and walks out to the railing by the water. He breathes in deeply, stares at the grey water. After a short moment, Zayn joins him, and he’s standing so close to Niall their elbows are touching.

Zayn is quiet. It’s not uncharacteristic of Zayn, at all – usually it’s one of the things Niall admire the most about Zayn, how he doesn’t need to fill the silences with babble and laughter. It’s make everything he says much more valuable, much more sacred. Niall, on the other hand, tends to be rather okay with how he himself is super-talkative, even though he gets that he can be annoying. Zayn has up to this point never shown any of those signs, signs of being put up with Niall and wishing he’d just shut up.

But now, now Niall has no idea what to say, and that just makes Zayn’s silence even worse. He can’t just make Niall guess what he’s thinking; it’s not fair, and it’s not like Niall has to be the one doing all the talking, just because he usually does.

Zayn fumbles around in his pocket for a while, finds a new cigarette and lights it. Niall looks at his hands, but not at his face, even though he can tell Zayn is trying to catch his eye. Then, finally, he says, ‘Hey, Niall. We said we should talk about things.’

Niall can understand this, very well. It’s just that, something with Zayn’s posture and his tone. Something, something is crawling up his spine. It reminds him of things, too much. When they stormed the flat, when they forced Harry down on the floor with a knee on his back, Liam in handcuffs. Niall’s arm being twisted up on his back and tears in his eyes and it hurt and his arm twisted even further up and someone laughing in his ear, actually laughing. ‘Yeah, okay,’ he says, and his voice doesn’t sound like it should. ‘Me and snow, whatcha wanna say about it?’

Zayn’s eyes are narrowed, and this time Niall meets them. He doesn’t let go, either; Zayn drops his gaze first, directs it out to the Thames. ‘Let’s say, hypothetically, you, Styles, and Payne did cocaine last night. That’s a crime. And I’m supposed to fight crime, with any knowledge I have, or –‘

‘Fuck’s sake,’ Niall interrupts. ‘I fucking know it’s a crime, and I know you’re a fucking cop. Did I say I did coke? Did I?’

Zayn takes a long drag on his cigarette, and then he flicks it into the river. Niall is pretty sure Zayn’s never finished a smoke that quickly before. ‘Okay, sure,’ he says, turning so he’s got his back against the railing instead. ‘Never mind the fact you’re stuffing powder up your nose like any old crackhead, there’s other things.’

‘Like what?’ Niall’s vision is whitening in the edges, and he’s gripping far too hard around the metallic railing.

‘It’s just weird, innit? I’m a policeman, and you’re – you’re, what? A criminal –‘

‘Hey. I’m not.’ Niall feels as though the world is too small: even though he’s out in an open space, everything is closing in on him, the water is approaching, the trees behind them, and Zayn, Zayn is too close. He grips even harder on the railing.

‘No, I know you’re not.’ Zayn sounds exasperated, and Niall can’t help to think that it isn’t fair; Zayn shouldn’t be saying this, it’s not cool, but he’s too busy breathing to say it. ‘But you’re, like, associating with criminals. Styles is one thing, but I mean, _Payne_. He’s been in prison, he’s bloody well known. Louis was brought into talk with the chief the other day, just because Harry had been to see him at the station and had chatted to Grimshaw down in the reception and had thrown away Payne’s name. It’s fucked up, ‘s what it is.’

Niall still says nothing. First time he’s quiet and Zayn talks a whole bunch, and everything sucks balls.

‘Our first fucking meeting was when you were brought in at the station because you were suspected of illegal drug possession. Second time I see you, you’ve been shoplifting, and you tell me in the preliminary hearing it’s because you needed a reason to see me again. Sure, I was happy to see you again. It’s just, if we could do this any other way, where you’re not –‘

Niall leans away from Zayn. He’s not sure he remembers how to breathe any longer. ‘Hey, Zayn. Listen. I’ve got to go.’

Zayn doesn’t respond, at least Niall doesn’t hear him responding, because his heartbeats are thundering in his ear and his vision has narrowed even more: everything in the periphery is black.  Niall walks away, same way they came, and it’s all terrible, terrible, terrible. If Niall, after having crossed the Millennium Bridge, stops in an empty alley and pukes in a doorway, no one needs to know about that.

His hands are shaking when he sits at the Tube – he’s not sure it was a good idea to go down to the underground, not at all, he’s regretting it so much already, it’s too small and too dark and too little space. When he can see his reflection in the window after the large man opposite him gets up, he is so pale he doesn’t recognize himself. If he’s being logical, it could be the hangover hitting a little late. Most likely, it’s something completely different.

He sends a text to Liam:

_Mate you up???? Can ii come over_

The response comes two stations later. Two stations where the car’s become even smaller. A woman asked if he was fine, asked if he wanted some water, and he tried to smile at her, thank her kindly, but he’s not sure what happened; now she isn’t there any longer.

_yeah sureeeee!!! Whats the matterrrrrrrrr_

Niall, after muting it, pockets his phone and tries to focus on something else than how he feels like vomiting again. On something else than how small this car is.

When he arrives at Liam’s, he switches off his phone completely as soon as Liam’s opened up for him, and then he pushes past him and goes straight into the bathroom and throws up again. Soon he’ll be completely empty. He kind of hopes he’ll empty himself to the point he’s not having any feelings left either.

Liam doesn’t ask anything, just hands him a glass of water – a glass which he’s held up to the lamp, inspecting it for a long while, rubbing a little at the edge before filling it up. Then they sit down on the sofa, Niall letting his head fall into the side of Liam, so Liam’s arm comes to rest around him, while Niall puts his feet up on the green fabric, shoes still on. It’s not like Liam would care, either way. The TV is on, but for the time they’re sat there, Niall has no idea what they’re watching. His mind is completely blank.

Then, at one point where Niall’s almost drifted off to sleep, relaxed by the steady flow of babble on the TV, some show about abandoned buildings in Britain or whatnot and Liam’s finger rubbing circles on his waist, Liam’s phone goes off.

He mumbles ‘sorry’ and digs it out of his pocket, so Niall is a bit rustled around. While Liam falls back into the sofa, he presses his head back into Liam’s warm side. ‘Hi, Haz, what’s going on?’ Liam says, and Niall can tell he’s looking at him with a frown. But he refuses to move away, or even look up at Liam, and just grabs onto the soft fabric of Liam’s trousers.

Liam is quite for a while, and Niall shuts his eyes. Not gonna open them again. Then Liam says, ‘Yeah, he’s here, been here for a while now. Yeah, okay, hang on.’ He pokes Niall’s cheek until Niall opens his eyes, to the sight of practically a human puppy hovering over him. Liam never talks about his time in prison, which is dumb, because Niall would need some confirmation of how Liam survived in there, when he sometimes looks like this.

‘What?’ he murmurs.

‘Harry says Louis says Zayn says you two should talk.’ Liam scrunches up his forehead, probably because of the complicated chain of people telling other people stuff.

‘Don’t wanna talk,’ Niall responds, fully aware of how he’s sounding awfully childish. ‘We already did, too.’

Liam squints down at Niall, and then he lifts the phone again. ‘Niall says he doesn’t want to.’ He is quiet, but this time for not as long. ‘Yeah, I know. Okay, yeah, you should. Don’t – Don’t bring Tomlinson. No, I didn’t think that. Just. Just, you know.’ He makes a wave in the air with the hand that’s been resting on Niall’s back, and then he says ‘good, see you,’ and hangs up.

Niall turns over so he’s pressing his face into Liam’s thigh. He wants time to stop, right this moment.

‘Hey,’ Liam says. ‘So, what’s the deal?’ When Niall looks up at Liam it’s rather difficult to remember this man has once shot a bloke in the leg. Just a little bit. Since he’s still sporting those same eyes. ‘You’ve already talked? ‘Cause it didn’t sound so, from what Harry said. Then again, he’s, like, third person hearing it. Second. I don’t know.’

Niall huffs a little, but even he can hear how there’s no heart behind it. ‘Mostly was Zayn yelling at me. He’s getting second thoughts going out with a bad boy like meself.’

Liam scrunches up his nose. Niall is still draped across his lap, and he’s got a lovely view of the double chin Liam gets when he’s looking down at him, and tells him as much. ‘Hey, if you’d be a normal lad and not hang around my dick – though it’s a lovely dick – this much I wouldn’t have to sit in this awkward position to see your face.’ He grabs Niall’s wrist and gives it a light squeeze. ‘Either way, this is weird. You were so happy yesterday? Thought you’d talked it out. Also, Hazza and Tomlinson don’t seem to have those problems. ‘S this Malik got something up his arse, or –‘

‘Well, he does. Sometimes. This other bad boy over here.’ Niall pats his crotch, and wolf-grins up at Liam, whose face is set in stone for a heartbeat, and then he goes just slightly pink (Niall remembers those days when Liam went around crimson red all the time: good ol’ days indeed) and groans.

‘Don’t wanna hear about that, Horan.’ He draws some circles on Niall’s wrist, and it’s nice, all.

‘Yeah, me neither, if I’m being honest,’ Niall says quietly.

They both fall into a silence, eyes drawn back to the TV that Liam now unmutes, having turned down the volume completely when Harry ringed earlier. After ten minutes or so, there’s a knock on the door, and Liam yells, ‘It’s open!’ so loudly Niall almost winces. On the other hand, all that’s not silences is good, because it’s both attention-grabbing, filling up his mind, and not reminding him of stuff.

Harry wanders into the room, all long legs and fancy-arse coat and, like what, two ponytails in his hair. ‘Hey, did Tommo braid your hair?’ Niall says, which prompts Liam to squeeze his wrist and throw his head backwards in a cackle.

Harry shakes his head, face twisted into a look that Niall guesses is supposed to convince them he’s highly insulted, perfectly indignant, but then he throws himself into the sofa, lands on top of both of them, saying ‘No, no, no, no.’

Liam starts to protest that they’re too heavy for him, together, which has Harry going on about Liam is _the_ fittest, so it’s not valid, not at all, and Niall wants time to stop again, being sandwiched between the two of them like this forever.

Forever, huh. Been a lot of thoughts about that idea, today. Harry seems to sense Niall’s grin is fading, as he suddenly stops squirming on top of them, and pokes Niall’s cheek instead. Liam swallows down whatever he was saying about Harry’s love handles, and watches Niall closely. ‘Okay, Ni,’ Harry says quietly. ‘What’s the matter, now? Felt like Louis wasn’t telling me all. Like, um, he just ringed me and said to, like, contact you since Zayn wanted to get in touch with you. And, like, your phone is turned off?’

Niall hums, not certain of what he’s supposed to say. Harry’s huge hand somehow attaches itself to his hair, fingers massaging his scalp, and it’s nice, it’s so very nice. It’s weird, though, how he before felt that everything was too close, when he was out in open air, next to a river even, and now, now it’s completely different: he’s got bodies all around him, and he still leans closer into them. ‘I… I kind of freaked out again, like yesterday. But this time, I swear to God, it was legitimate.’

Liam and Harry seem to be having a bit of a conversation through eyebrow-signs and bumping their knees into each other’s ribs, and then Liam says, ‘I want a beer. Do you lot want a beer? I’m going to fetch us some beers, okay.’ He manages to entangle himself fairly graciously from the two of them – in fact, Harry’s the one who has to grab hold of the armrest not to fall of the sofa, and then Liam disappears into the kitchen.

Harry keeps petting Niall’s hair, saying nothing. When Liam piles back into the room, two beer cans in one hand and a half-empty bottle of rum in the other, Harry sits up straight, and Niall follows. Their thighs are pressed into each other’s though, and Liam sits down on the floor, stretching out his leg so that his tennis sock-clad foot resting against Niall’s. He hands one of the beer cans to Niall, and keeps the other to himself. Harry gets the rum bottle and takes a swig immediately, whereby he turns off the TV completely.

‘From the beginning, love?’ Harry says.

Niall opens his beer can. Suddenly it’s as though he can’t keep his eyes open anymore; he just feels so tired. On the other hand, he’s pretty sure he should, like, voice all his feelings now, instead of waiting, because then he’ll probably be prone to ignore them. Harry’s been going on to him about this for ages that he shouldn’t ignore his heart’s desires or some other crap like that. And right now that doesn’t feel like crap – the only thing around that’s crap is _him_ so; he should at least try.

‘You remember Winston, don’t you?’

Harry winces next to him, and well, _shit_. Harry never actually said anything about him, after everything went down, but Liam and Niall have had their suspicions between them.

He puts a hand on Harry’s thigh, and watches the lad gulp down some of the rum as though it’s pure water. ‘Sorry, Haz? Should we talk about that, too?’

Liam is clutching his beer wide-eyed, and Niall has again trouble remembering that Liam has shot someone.

‘No, ‘s fine. Was ages ago, yeah.’ Harry’s smile is slightly shaky, but he puts his hand – the one not clutching the rum bottle white-knuckled – on top of Niall’s. ‘But I think I know where you’re, like, going with this?’ There’s a wrinkle between his eyebrows.

Niall swallows, and nods.

Liam makes an angry noise down in his throat. ‘I’m really sorry. Really sorry, Niall. But, just hang on. Harry, did you and Winston actually shag? Oh my god. _Oh my god_.’

Niall snorts, and Harry pulls a very affronted face. ‘Hey,’ he says, drawing out the last bit even longer than he usually would. ‘Yeah. And obviously, that made it all worse. And why are you laughing so much, Payne, stop that!’ He throws a pillow at Liam, who’s rolling around on the floor now, hands covering his eyes.

Niall puts his feet up beneath his body, still chuckling, as Liam is now whining about how terrible imagery Harry’s given him now, how he won’t be able to sleep for weeks.

‘Niall, make him stop,’ Harry says, pouting, to Niall. ‘This is upsetting me; I was over Ben. Now Liam’s, um, poking at all my scars with a pointed stick. Please make the bad man stop.’

Niall grins, and kicks at Liam’s bum with his foot. ‘Hey, Payno. Our princess here feels bullied, so shut it now.’

Liam keeps giggling for a little while, and then he straightens up and wipes at his eyes, which are all scrunched up, reduced to just slits. Niall feels as though he’s safe, safe in here – the look on Liam’s face and Harry’s hand on his, it’s all he needs, honestly. He’s so grateful. ‘Alright, soz, mate,’ Liam says to Harry. ‘Just, you and Winston. Sure, we kind of knew, me and Ni, but it’s still funny. Now, when it’s a while ago.’

The corner of Harry’s mouth turns upwards, and his dimples appear. ‘Ha, okay. He was a good shag, lemme tell you. And he spoiled me rotten, swear to God.’

‘We knew _that_ , though,’ Niall says. ‘You just had to wink at him and he’d buy you all things, booze and clothes and that ugly hat.’

Harry’s dimples become even more pronounced. ‘Hey, is this insult-Harry-night or? I still wear that hat; it’s nice, dammit! Fuck both of you,’ he finishes, pointing with his middle finger and his index fingers at Niall and Liam, while the rest of his hand still holds the rum bottle. As stated: Harry’s hands are massive.

Liam crawls on all four over to Harry, and bumps his forehead against Harry’s knee. ‘Sorry, for real, Hazza. Won’t insult your fashion taste or sugar daddy taste anymore. ‘S just, Winston deserves being insulted, doesn’t he?’

Harry looks over at Niall, face softening. ‘Yeah, he totally does. Ben was a dick – with a nice dick.’ Niall and Liam both groans, and Harry puts his tongue out at them, and then he continues, ‘What was your reason for bringing that arsehole up, Nialler?’ His tone is hard, but Harry’s eyes look like a doe’s.

‘He was a huge cunt, yeah. But well. That’s what it’s about, like. We were going to Tates today, me and Z, and then we were talking, and, I don’t know, I got this feeling?’ He’s being very vague, but something in Harry’s eyes light up, like recognition. Liam still looks a bit confused, though, so Niall continues. ‘It sounded, not exactly like Winston, don’t think Zayn would do _that_ , but he kept going on about, you know, how he was a policeman.’

Liam bites his lower lip, and then he says, ‘Like… Okay.’

They are all silent, and Niall knows that they get it. Knows that they are thinking of how bad it had been when they’d been ratted out by Winston and his people, when they knew the police were after them, that they were properly on their tracks. How Niall, more than Harry and Liam, hadn’t been able to deal with the idea of going to prison, to be closed in like that. How Liam had promised Niall that he would make sure Niall wouldn’t have to go through that, how he had promised he would do anything. Thinking of exactly how bad that time had been.

Harry’s hand finds Niall’s again. ‘But, like, does he have anything on you? It’s been years since any of us did anything that bad.’

‘He kind of knows we’re doing cocaine.’

Liam half-smiles. ‘Told you, haven’t I, told both of you to stay away from drugs.’

Harry shoves at Liam’s shoulder with his foot. ‘You are fucking dealing speed, Payner.’

‘Not anymore,’ Liam says, putting his nose up a little. ‘Don’t do drugs, kids.’

Niall smiles, despite the image of Zayn swirling before his eyes, with his eyes so hard, unrelenting. ‘Yeah, sure, you goody-two-shoes. And he keeps going on about me shoplifting. I know it’s not enough to, like, put me in prison or anything, plus he’s not got any proof we’re doing snow, but…’ He trails off, closes his eyes, and then he says the words that’ve been there, the entire time, which he in fact wasn’t quite aware of, forcing them to be unsaid, ‘I thought he got it. That I’ve got trust issues. He’s got it that I’m, like, claustrophobic, but it’s just. It’s making me wanna run across the world when he says stuff like that.’

Liam pretty much punching the floor is what breaks the silence. Niall opens his eyes slightly, and he can tell, from just a glance, that Liam is fuming.

‘Hey, Li. It’s not that bad,’ he says quickly. ‘No need to go into Terminator-mode. I can stop with the crack, right? And shoplifting is silly either way, so I already know how to solve this problem. It’s just that I feel like he broke my trust, or something.’ He tries laughing, but it gets stuck in his throat.

Harry furrows his brow, and Liam punches the floor again. ‘Two things,’ Harry says slowly. ‘First one, trust is a main component in a functioning relationship, so it is bad, Ni. And it moreover feels like he doesn’t trust you either, to know what you’re doing. And secondly, you shouldn’t have to change for anyone.’

‘I know, Haz,’ Niall says, leaning towards Harry slightly, so their upper arms are touching. ‘But changing, like, stopping with hard drugs and not stealing stuff? It’s for the better, innit?’

Liam seems to have calmed himself a little, as he pipes up, ‘It would be good if you left off the cocaine, so I agree with you on that one. But Haz is right, you should be able to trust him; he should know better than to, like, bring stuff up like that. I mean, he _knows_ , doesn’t he?’

Niall nods slowly, feeling small. ‘Yeah, pretty sure he does.’ He’s thinking of how Zayn always keeps a window open when they’re driving Zayn’s light blue Ford, how he always chooses a table by the windows when they’re out for dinner, and how he always _lets_ Niall. Lets him, without judging. But today he – didn’t. ‘He does, we’ve never said it proper out loud, but he’s figured it out, that I – That I don’t like small spaces and stuff. And people telling me what I should or shouldn’t do or defining me or whatever. Today, I don’t know, all that went fuckwhere.’

Harry’s response is a disgruntled noise down his throat, and Liam punches the floor again, not as hard, but still. ‘Can I, like, call Louis about this? Do you think it’d help?’ Harry says. He drags a hand across his face. ‘He could talk to Zayn? This – I don’t know – we have to solve it. It’s solvable, it fucking is.’

Niall just sags down in the sofa. ‘Wait ‘til tomorrow, please. Can we just get hammered, like? Real smashed, from the totally legal drug alcohol, not touching anything that would have to be put up your arse to get it past the borders?’

Both Liam and Harry nods, solemnly. Then Harry breaks together, giggles helplessly into Niall’s shoulder about the time Liam tried to smuggle E from Amsterdam, and one of the pills weren’t packaged properly, so Liam got an actual hit on the drug from putting it up his bum instead of having – as it should be - swallowed it, and the plane ride was the worst and best two hours ever, simultaneously. Liam blushes a faint pink again, while Harry makes a rubbish imitation of how Liam babbled with one of the attendants about strippers, and Niall goes through five beers in an hour and doesn’t look at his phone all night even though there’s a point where he’s considering it – just having started at the vodka, but Harry and Liam confiscates it from him, and Niall doesn’t even mind that much, and he might make out with Liam a little bit against the fridge, because it’s on top of the fridge where they’ve put his phone, and Liam keeps pushing him away but also laughs straight into Niall’s mouth. And it’s nice, all. Harry’s laughing in the background, doubling over, and Liam is grinning when they break apart, and Harry’s putting on music, and it’s all good, Niall’s not thinking about anything.

He falls asleep in Liam’s bed, all three of them does, Niall’s not sure how he got there, but they’re like a warm bundle, and it’s great, great all of it. Harry’s whispering ‘And tomorrow’s going to be even better,’ makes Niall realise he’s praised the situation out loud, and Liam nods, his buzzcut scratching against Niall’s belly, and he says, ‘We’re gonna make Officer Malik realise what a good boy you are, and regret everything. Maybe break some of his legs – Hazza, can I please just hurt him a little bit?’ ‘Violence against an officer? Liam, nooooo.’ ‘Okay, I won’t. But yeah, Ni, tomorrow’s gonna be a splendid day,’ and then after that Niall doesn’t pay much attention, even though Liam and Harry keep squirming around and whisper, their breaths warm against Niall’s skin every now and then.

For the second night in a row he feels like he’s seventeen, Niall realises, and then somewhere around that one thought he falls asleep.

* * *

He wakes up with one of Liam’s legs thrown across his knee – the bad one – and when he tries, carefully so as not to wake Liam, to get loose (it’s not hurting, not at all; it’s just that Liam is really warm, like a bloody furnace, and Niall is quite sweaty) Liam wakes up. Niall takes advantage of the moment of confusion on Liam’s face to pull out his leg from beneath Liam, which causes a look of horror to dawn on Liam’s face.

‘Oh shit, sorry! I’m so sorry, wow, Niall. Are you okay?’ Liam’s eyes are red-rimmed and he has what must be two days’ worth of stubble on his cheeks, and there’s a giant bandage on his arm with plastic on top, the sign of a new tattoo – one he doesn’t want to tell Harry and Niall what it is – and yet he looks like a seven-year-old child that’s been told he’s made his mum very disappointed – not mad, just disappointed.

‘It’s fine, Li –‘ Niall begins, but Liam has already put a pillow across his own face.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he almost inaudibly says. ‘Does it hurt much? I bet it do –‘

Niall climbs on top of Liam. ‘It doesn’t – it’s perfectly fine.’

Liam peeks out from beneath the pillow.

‘It’s perfectly fine, okay?’

‘Okay,’ Liam says, putting the pillow away but still pouting heavily. He sits up – as much as possible with Niall on top of him – and winds his arms around Niall’s middle. They sit like that for a while, Niall chuckling a bit while Liam continues pouting.

Then Harry comes walking into the bedroom, equipped with nothing but a spatula and boxers. ‘Thought I heard you. Lazy bastards, sleeping ‘til this late in the day.’

‘You made food?’ Niall asks, wriggling free from Liam’s grip.

‘Hey, com’ere. Stay,’ Liam says, making grabby hands, but Niall is already ducking beneath Harry’s spatula.

‘Not feeling too good?’ Niall can hear Harry ask Liam. ‘Paracetamol?’ Niall needs to develop his theory that hangovers can be cured by skin-on-skin feeling, since Liam was so cuddly this morning. Now, the fry-up Harry’s made is lot more tempting.

Just as he’s about to load a plate with some scrambled eggs, Harry’s phone dings on the table. He glances at the screen, and sees the preview of the message:

_< 3 <3 naughty styles. Tell niall zayns taken the day off. Don’t think hes too well I txtd him but he didn’t say much xxx_

Niall frowns at it, then goes back to the stove to get some bacon as well. He sits down at the table and starts eating, and when Harry comes back into the kitchen he nudges at Harry’s phone with his fork. Liam’s moaning something from the bedroom, but Harry’s eyes just briefly dips down to the phone, and then back up to Niall’s. There’s like a wall in them, but not one closing Niall out, more like one enclosing both of them. Like some kind of protection, for the two of them.

‘Want me to drive you over? Been up since eight, had a shower and a proper meal, plus, like, five bottles of water, so all the alcohol should be out of my system.’

Niall grins around a bite of eggs, and says, ‘All it takes to make a good law-abiding citizen out of you Styles are some soppy memories of calling Winston “daddy” and having to be a good boy and beg for his cock?’

‘So much with that sentence is wrong,’ Harry murmurs. ‘Don’t know where to start. I haven’t been drunk-driving in five years, though, so!’ He waves the spatula in Niall’s face. ‘One of the things I pride myself on.’

Niall swallows down the eggs and shovels in some bacon. Delicious, really. ‘And the analytic within me notes that you prefer being accused of being Winston’s sugar-baby than drinking and driving.’

‘Oh, shut it you,’ Harry says and waves the spatula about again. ‘Never mind. You want a lift? The Underground’s gonna be crammed since it’s Sunday.’

‘Yeah, sure. Cool.’

‘Okay, I’ll go grab something to wear of Liam. You want me to go lumberjack-style or Beckham-style?’

‘Hey, that’s not fair,’ comes the weak protest from the bedroom.

Harry and Niall both laughs, and then Harry disappears into Liam’s bedroom. Niall feels really settled, where he’s sitting. He appreciates that Harry didn’t say anything about it, just offered him a ride. They kind of said everything last night, and what they didn’t say, they just understood.

After finishing his food, swallowing it down with some half cold tea, he pads into the bathroom. Liam’s by the toilet bowl, looking terribly pale and sweaty, and Niall pats his shoulder while he looks into the mirror and tries to decide whether he should shower or not. ‘Did you drink lots more than me and Haz or what’s the deal, buddy?’ he asks, beginning to pull his tank top off. It stinks, but he’s been wearing it since they were out Friday evening, and he’s slept in it (or on it) two nights in a row.

Liam doesn’t answer, his eyes closed and his forehead resting against the porcelain of the toilet.

Harry puts his head through the door. ‘No time for showering, Horan. Ed just texted and I need to be at the restaurant as soon as possible; there’s some kind of crisis, like.’ He tilts his head and looks down at Liam. ‘Li, will you be alright?’

Liam winces and mumbles something.

Harry’s eyes meet Niall’s in the bathroom mirror when Niall’s pulled the tank top back on. ‘He did have half a bottle of vodka by himself, so we shouldn’t be surprised.’

‘Or worried,’ Liam replies quietly.

Niall turns over, presses a kiss to Liam’s head, and says, ‘And this is the lad that’s been lecturing us on how bad drugs are.’ He presses another kiss to Liam’s temple. ‘Nah, just kidding. You’ll be fine, babes?’

Liam nods. ‘Go. Go get the cop back and go save the restaurant. Just, um, get me a glass of water, please?’

While Harry goes to get one, Niall nicks Liam’s hair wax, hoping he’ll be able to fix at least his hair in the car. He looks like a wreck.

‘Bye, Li,’ him and Harry chorus later, Harry telling Liam to text him every hour, and Liam faintly agreeing, wishing Niall good luck.

Harry’s got his car parked two blocks away, little yellow vintage thing that looks far too expensive for the neighbourhood, but that’s Harry wherever he goes, pretty much. Niall looks far too cheap for the car and wherever _he_ goes, he thinks morosely, when they’ve buckled up and Harry speeds away.

He plucks the can of hair wax out of his pocket and forms some half-arsed quiff with it. Better than greasy, he decides. Harry gives him an approving smile as well, and while Harry had a period where he was, like, two days away from dreads all the time, Niall decides to not let the praise make him unconfident.

He’s that plenty already. Harry drops him off outside Zayn’s building, with a ‘Break a leg! Not the bad one, though, that one’s broken enough. Or, maybe that one indeed. Don’t want two bad ones, do you?’ and a little honk as he puts the car in reverse and zigzags past an old man with a walker.

Niall sniffs his tank top one more, regrets it immensely since the smell really is that bad, and then he goes through the door to the complex when a woman gets out, half-yelling a ‘thanks, mam’ over his shoulder, as though he’s only forgotten his keys. Although his keys are in his pocket, the keys Zayn tossed to him one morning as he left for work, saying, ‘Well, it makes things easier, doesn’t it?’

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t want to even use them for that first door. Like, Zayn wouldn’t know; it wouldn’t make a difference. As he stands outside Zayn’s door, having ringed the doorbell, he tries not to think about it, because he honestly has no explanation. The keys are burning in his pocket.

Zayn opens. He actually looks a little bit chocked, where he’s standing in the doorway, hair soft as feathers, in his glasses and a giant t-shirt.

Niall’s pretty sure it’s his t-shirt. His heart makes a double loop, and that’s super cheesy, but tell his heart that.

‘Where’s your keys?’ Zayn says, one hand still at the door.

‘Here,’ Niall responds, patting his pocket.

‘Why aren’t you using them?’ Zayn drops his hand and turns over, and Niall follows, closing the door carefully.

‘Didn’t feel right. I wasn’t sure you, hmm, wanted me to. Like, just walk in here uninvited.’

Zayn says nothing for a short moment. ‘But I gave you keys. Like, that cancels out the possibility of uninvited-ness, doesn’t it?’ His nose is scrunched up a little, and he sits down in the sofa. Niall occupies one of the armchairs opposite him. It’s hard to think it’s just a bit more than a day that has passed since he last was here, but on the other hand, everything looks the same, like it did then.

‘Wasn’t sure,’ Niall replies softly.

There’s a ghost of a smile on Zayn’s lips. Niall so badly wants a real smile to crawl out. He so badly wants to let Zayn know how much he likes seeing him in his clothes. ‘You should be,’ Zayn says quietly, and Niall nods.

They’re both silent for a long while, then Niall says, ‘Hey, so, I’ve stopped with coke. Not saying I’ve ever done, but if I ever did coke, like hypothetically, that’s definitely not going to happen in the future again.’

Zayn blinks at him.

‘Yeah, well, I know it’s only been a day since I hypothetically did coke with Hazza in a tangy old pub, but I’ll definitely never do it again in the future. Promise.’ He looks down at his hands. It feels a bit silly, now that he’s said it out loud. The sunlight streaming in through the windows enlightens every dust grain floating in the air, and it glitters, the entire room kind of. He doesn’t know what he wants Zayn to respond, or if he even wants Zayn to respond anything at all.

‘I’m sorry,’ Zayn says. Niall looks up at him, and Zayn sits as a statue in the sofa. Only his eyes are moving, and there’s something so eerie about the moment, Niall can’t help but imagine going over there, daring Zayn not to move, and then palm him through his jeans for a while, licking at his collarbone. Fingers edging around the rim of his boxers, teeth grazing Zayn’s skin for every time he shudders. Unbuttoning his jeans, not being able to pull them down properly since Zayn’s not to move, so just pulling Zayn’s cock out as much as possible. Zayn’s breathing hitching and getting stuck in his throat, one of his hands landing in Niall’s hair, and Niall tweaking his nipple, because that counted as moving, it sure did.

Niall shakes his head. He’s not doing this, not now. He’s not gonna be half-hard in his disgusting boxers which he’s been wearing three days in a row or so, when Zayn just told him he’s sorry. The moment’s much too precious for that; he’s probably meant to scrapbook about this or something, so he can show it to his grandchildren; he’s definitely meant to savour this. He supposes he’s having coke-withdrawal-problems, most probably. He tells Zayn as much, explaining that’s why he missed what Zayn said, could he please repeat himself? It earns him a bit more than the ghost of a smile, like, the actual skeleton of a smile, not just a vapid mist-like non-solid shape, but the perhaps not so alive, but still very much made up of real tangible things, smile, so he’s content.

‘I said I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come onto you like I did. It was rude, and uncalled for. And I’ve taken courses in conflict-dealing and, like, Louis’s done the same, and he was like, “can someone be failed retrospectively, because you should’ve been” so, well, I’m sorry.’ Zayn says all of that quite quickly, so he looks a bit out of breath when he becomes quiet. Looks quite lovely.

‘Apology accepted,’ Niall says.

‘Thanks for laying off the drugs,’ Zayn says, still not moving very much.

‘The hypothetical ones,’ Niall says, grinning. ‘No, for sure, I won’t even put a toe outside the law. Want to be your plus-one at all your work-parties, want you to show me off to everyone like I’m your trophy wife.’

The smile that appears at Zayn’s lips is full-blown this time. The skeleton has grown flesh and bones and is very much alive, and it’s some weird imagery, but hey, Niall watched Benjamin Button when he was high on some very good quality cannabis. ‘C’mere,’ Zayn says, and Niall is pretty much crossing the distance separating them with one step.

He sits down on Zayn’s lap, says, ‘Well, we’re gonna have to practice the talking, aren’t we? If it’s supposed to make us – this – better, we did something wrong, didn’t we?’

Zayn shuts him up by putting a finger on his lips. ‘Sure. We’ll practice it later, though. Don’t want to talk now, okay?’ His other hand, the one Niall’s not managed to now engulf with his mouth, sucking hardly at two of Zayn’s fingers, presses down at Niall’s crotch.

Niall pulls his mouth off Zayn’s fingers with a loud ‘pop’. He’s quite proud. ‘Hey, sure. We should do this in the shower, though, I’m super gross.’

Zayn blinks a few times. ‘Yeah, now that you mention it, you smell quite awful.’

‘You’re supposed to tell me I cannot be gross, that – since I’m a forest nymph – it’s a physical impossibility, you twat.’ Niall digs his fingers into Zayn’s thigh.

‘A forest nymph? I won’t forget that one, babe.’

* * *

**Epilogue**

Zayn is on his way to retrieve a few sheets from the printer – a short report of the patrol yesterday – when Louis shouts ‘It’s for you,’ from over at his desk. He’s always shouting, Louis is. Even though the office they are sharing with three other people is in no way big enough for anyone to have to be shouting to be heard.

Louis tosses the wireless phone to him, and Zayn catches it, pointedly not meeting Louis’ eyes. It’s got to be Niall, on the phone. Otherwise Louis wouldn’t have handed the phone away; otherwise anyone picking up deals with it, as they’re supposed to.

It’s not that he’s minding Niall’s calls. At first, he found it a bit embarrassing, because, well, all calls are recorded for administrative reasons, as Louis informed him. Then he figured out that it was Louis’ – and Louis’ alone – task to listen through them. Niall had quickly got over his initial surprise that Zayn wasn’t trying to end the conversation as fast as possible, and that one call had turned into proper phone sex. Louis had been absolutely furious; it had been great.

Also, he appreciates Niall phoning him a lot, these days, not that Niall’s aware of it, but Zayn does. It’s been two weeks, Niall being entirely clean, but some of the days are worse than others. And Zayn spent his entire lunch break the Monday after Niall had promised him to stay off cocaine reading up on abstinence problems, and there was this thing about high blood pressure that worried him a little.

The fact that Niall seems to have the best stamina in the world when it comes to just dropping drugs like that is comforting, but Zayn’s still on edge whenever Niall phones. Whenever he even thinks about Niall. He’s not going to let this slip to Louis, most definitely.

He gives the printer a little smack, to get it started (it’s useless, pretty much, oldest machine in the office but they all know how to work it, the little tricks, so no one’s asked to get it substituted, and all their complains about it are of a very affectionate nature), and says into the phone: ‘West End Central Police Station, Malik speaking.’ The printer starts chugging. Zayn can tell Louis is glaring at him from behind.

‘Oh thank god!’ Niall’s voice is unmistakably loud, and Zayn lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Great, Niall isn’t in the bathroom puking his guts up, then, as he was two nights ago. Nor has he got a stroke or something, Zayn thinks morbidly. ‘There’s an emergency, you see!’

The printer is done with the papers, but Zayn doesn’t leave the corner where the gigantic grey machine is placed. ‘Yeah?’ He’s pretty sure he’s not blushing, not already. The first few times Niall called the police station it was bad. Once, when the chief was in, he had to hide beneath his desk.

‘You see, the emergency, ‘s in my pants.’ Zayn feels something hit the back of his head; he twirls around and sees a ball of crumpled paper lie on the floor, next to his boots. Louis is grimacing at him, face an odd mixture of fondness and cheekiness and anger.

‘Hmmm,’ Zayn says, poking his tongue out at Louis.

‘My boyfriend left, you see, without shagging me properly. What a twat, right!’

‘I can’t help but agree with you, sir,’ Zayn says, some sort of tingly feeling creeping up his spine. Louis has buried his head beneath his arms, looking properly defeated.

‘Thanks! And, well, obviously my hand’s not enough. I think you need to do an emergency turnout, Officer Malik.’

‘It surely sounds like it. I’ll be there as soon as possible, sir.’ Zayn hangs up, goes over to Louis and drapes himself across the figure that’s still lying like a dead seal by his desk. ‘Hey, Tommo. I’mma take my lunch break now, and guess what I’m gonna spend it doing?’ he half-whispers.

Louis wriggles beneath him. ‘Spend it!’ he huffs. ‘Fuck you, Malik.’

Zayn licks at Louis’ ear, and then he straightens up. ‘Well, see you later.’ It’s become a ritual, nearly, taking the underground back home for his lunch break – before, before _Niall_ , and that’s such a weird thing, that Niall’s become so important he can separate his life into two parts, one without him and one with him, before, anyway, he always ate a sandwich from Tesco at his desk and had a coffee from the coffee machine in the reception.

He’s quite happy with the change.

His mobile phone buzzes when he’s on the tube, but it’s just Louis, texting him over and over again, emoji after emoji, the monkey covering his eyes, the gun and a scared face, the water drops.

Niall opens the door even before Zayn’s up the stairs, squinting happily at him in the whiteness from the strip lights.

There are tickets in Zayn’s pocket, tickets to the Christmas charity ball the London police arranges, there’s two of them, and Niall doesn’t know yet, where he’s standing in the door way, waiting for Zayn, and shit, it’s all so _good_.


End file.
